


Lavender

by MagnetoTheMagnificent



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angry Crowley (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Antisemitism, Apologies, Awkward Aziraphale (Good Omens), Awkward Conversations, Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Bathing/Washing, Betrayal, Class Differences, Classism, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Disabled Crowley (Good Omens), Drinking, Dyslexic Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt, F/F, Gardener Crowley (Good Omens), Gardens & Gardening, Gay Bar, Getting Back Together, Historical References, Homophobia, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Insecure Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kissing, LGBTQ Themes, Labor Unions, Language of Flowers, Lesbian Anathema Device, Love Confessions, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Misunderstandings, Nervous Crowley (Good Omens), POC Aziraphale, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Polari, Police, Police Brutality, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Racism, Regret, Small Talk, Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporary Break Up, Weddings, Workers Strike, lavender marriages, undercover cop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29445285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagnetoTheMagnificent/pseuds/MagnetoTheMagnificent
Summary: Anathema Device and Sarah Young are a lesbian couple in 1870s London. In order to avoid suspicion, they form an arrangement with bachelors Alva Rolf and Anthony Crowley, who are gay, single, and skeptical of forming new relationships.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Original Female Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Kinda - Relationship
Comments: 77
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

The bar was mostly empty, save for two women and man in the corner. It was a seedy bar in Soho, and, as such, was a popular spot for the group. In their clean and fashionable clothes, they looked a bit out of place for their drab surroundings, but the barman wasn’t surprised they were there. They were regulars at the bar, which was usually full of a motley cast of patrons. In the early hours of the morning, they were alone, which offered them some peace and quiet for an important discussion.

“Mum’s been on your case?” asked the man, a gentleman by the name of Alva Rolf. 

He had risen in the ranks of society, beginning as an apprentice to a successful printshop owner when he was a boy. The elderly owner's wife, the Madame Teresa Potts, had never had children of her own, and took a liking to the young Alva, treating him as her own son. When her husband finally passed away, she officially adopted Alva. Now, he had grown into a handsome young man, and the heir to Teresa's impressive estate. 

“Oh, is she!” groaned one of the women, a dapper young lady named Sarah Young. 

Sarah Young, and the other woman, Anathema Device, were a couple, but not that they could make that a known fact. In fact, Sarah’s mother had been bothering her about courtship. 

“Sarah, this wouldn’t be a problem if we, y’know,” Anathema nudged. 

Sarah gave her a doubtful look. 

“I am _not_ marrying some guy, ‘Thema,” she replied, taking a swig from the bottle of whiskey. 

“It wouldn’t be _some_ guy, Sarah. I have the perfect arrangement,” said Anathema.

“Yeah? Better not be some bitch you found at a club,” muttered Sarah. 

“Anthony is a lovely young man, I’ll have you know,” Anathema insisted. 

“Anthony?” remarked Sarah, “is he ‘so’?”

“Oh, definitely,” chuckled Anathema. 

“Who is he, then?”

“My gardener, I’m sure you’ve seen him around.”

“Oh, him?” Sarah exclaimed, laughing. 

“I’m sure I could stand being domestic with him,” she smiled.

“So you agree?” asked Anathema excitedly. 

“Yeah, mum’s not gonna be too pleased I’ll be marrying a gardener, but at this point she’d be happy I’m marrying _someone_ ,” chuckled Sarah.

Anathema grinned, and poured herself another glass. 

“Wait,” said Sarah quickly, “who’re you gonna get hitched to?”

Anathema glanced at Alva, who was nursing his drink silently. 

“Thought it was obvious,” she grinned.

“I’ll be marrying _him_!”

Alva looked up, having been spaced out for the majority of the conversation. 

“What?”

“Anthony, really,” sighed Anathema.

Officially, Anthony Crowley was her gardener, but he and Anathema were closer to friends than anything. Anthony had moved to London from the countryside as a teenager, and put his farming skills to work when he was employed by Anathema’s family to be their estate’s gardener. He sent money back to his family for a few years while their farm hit hard times, but once they were back on their feet, he informed them of his intentions to stay in London. He had grown accustomed to city life, and found he rather liked it. Anathema was only two years younger than him, so he took on a bit of an older brother's role to her. 

However, when Anathema suggested her grand idea to him, he was at a loss for words. 

“Wouldn’t it be...a bit of scandal?” he asked her.

He was well aware of his place in society, and while he wasn’t treated as a servant by Anathema, he knew the expectations that existed in the world. 

“The Youngs are respectable, but they don’t care too much about status as other families,” Anathema replied dismissively. 

“I don’t even know her. I’d have to...to provide for her, live with her, play her man,” protested Anthony. 

“You don’t have to do anything but act the part,” Anathema assured him, “besides, wouldn’t you want the chance to take part in higher society?”

“Not to be rude, An,” mumbled Anthony, “but I don’t really care for the big wigs that much.”

“Well, if not that, then being married would free you up for, y’know, _other things_ without worrying about the lillies.”

“I’m not that promiscuous, y’know,” Anthony laughed awkwardly. 

“Yeah, well, don’t you want to meet someone, have some fun?”

“Sometimes.”

“Think about,” said Anathema. 

“I think it’s a brilliant arrangement, Anthony.”

Anthony rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Eh, I’ll think about it,” he finally told her. 

“Excellent!”


	2. Chapter 2

Anthony adjusted his tie. Sarah, no, _his future wife_ , was coming over to meet him, as was Anathema’s future husband. He knew the marriages would only be significant in legalities, and he wouldn’t really have any emotional duties towards his wife if he didn’t wish to, but he was still nervous. He wondered if he ought to inform his parents. He was getting married, after all. But he hadn’t corresponded with them in years, not since he very bluntly told them in a letter;  
“Mother, Father, I am a homosexual and I am staying in London.”  
They never replied to him, and last he heard from someone who had been in their town, they were pretending he was dead. So that was that. 

He wondered what Anathema’s husband would be like. All he knew from Anathema’s description was that he was gay, which he supposed was a good thing, and that he was a friend. The older brother side of him wanted to make sure he was a good man.   
He heard laughter in the vestibule, and stood straighter. Anathema walked in with Sarah, and a tall, heavyset man who he figured was Alva Rolf. Anthony looked down at his shoes. Anathema was right, Alva was handsome. 

“So,” said Sarah awkwardly after the four of them retired to the parlor for drinks.   
“You’re Anthony.”

“Yep,” he said a little too loudly. 

This is a disaster, he thought, and took a large sip of his wine. 

“I’ll admit I’m a bit nervous about this whole arrangement,” Sarah confessed. 

“Mhm.”

Anthony was staring into his drink, secretly watching Alva from across the room. He was reading one of Anathema’s many books, occasionally tapping his glass gently. Alva had dark curly hair and neatly trimmed sideburns, and a delicate jewel earring on his right ear. He was dressed expensively, but not ostentatiously, and Anthony hoped he wouldn't up to be another pretentious prick. He'd be quite disappointed if he was. 

“How’s the happy couple?” teased Anathema as she walked into the room with more sweets. 

She planted a kiss on Sarah’s cheek and winked at Anthony. 

“Alva, have I properly introduced you to Anthony here?” she called across the room. 

Alva looked up from his book and folded his reading glasses. 

“No, you haven’t,” he replied, standing up. 

He walked towards Anthony and held out his silk-gloved hand. 

“I’m Alva Rolf, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, bowing slightly. 

“Anthony Crowley,” Anthony replied, shuffling on his feet. 

“I hear you’re a gardener. I’m sure you must be quite talented given how beautiful Miss Device’s grounds are,” Alva complimented. 

Anthony blushed. 

“Thank you,” he stammered. 

“What do you, uh, do?”

“I own a print shop,” Alva said. 

“So you print books?”

Alva chuckled. 

“Books, newspapers, catalogues, anything that has words on paper,” he replied. 

“That’s terrific,” Anthony said politely, leaning on his cane. 

He had never been any good with small talk, let alone with someone attractive.

“You didn’t tell me he was a dish,” Alva hissed as Anathema escorted him to the end of the driveway. 

“I didn’t think it was important,” Anathema shrugged, but she grinned at Sarah. 

“Why, are you interested?”

Alva coughed, and fiddled with his cravat. 

“That’s none of your business,” he replied. 

“No shame in fancying a bloke,” Sarah reminded him.   
“Besides, I’m certain he fancies you too.”

“He does?” asked Alva quickly. 

“I thought you weren’t interested,” Anathema teased. 

“I can still be curious,” Alva mumbled in a last attempt to save his dignity.

“Well, he was ogling you the whole time,” Sarah whispered. 

“Was he really?”

“Oh, it really was obvious, Alva. You would have noticed if you weren’t stuck in that book.”

“He’s not taken?” 

Anathema shook her head. 

“Make a move, Alva. What do you have to lose?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay, Anthony, you’re going to have to meet my family,” Sarah said regretfully. 

They were all at Anathema’s house, discussing the next course of action in their little scheme. Anthony still felt uncomfortable around the three of them, especially around Sarah, and certainly around Alva. He knew none of them were conventionally upper class, but they were still far wealthier than he was, and they certainly didn't engage in manual labour every day like he did. They didn't have much in common.

“You’re going to have to make a good impression, Anthony. I don’t want my parents thinking I’m marrying a tramp,” Sarah told him seriously. 

Anthony rolled his eyes. 

"I know my manners," he muttered.

“You’ll need something to wear,” Anathema pointed out.

“My clothes aren’t enough?” Anthony asked, offended. 

“Not to be rude, Anthony, but you’ll be asking for my hand in marriage. You can’t trot into my house with those slacks and expect to be welcomed by my father,” Sarah replied. 

Anthony reddened. 

“I _have_ nice clothes!” he protested, now hot with embarrassment. 

Alva cleared his throat. 

“Anthony has a point,” he said quietly. 

“You don’t want him to dress above his station. He is a gardener, and you don’t want your parents to get the wrong idea.”

“But for impressions-”

“If it makes you happy, Sarah dear, I could loan him one of my suits,” he suggested graciously.

“He could swing by today, and we can have some tailoring done so he fits.”

Anathema and Sarah looked at each other, and then at Anthony. He squirmed in his seat. 

“Sounds good,” he squeaked. 

“Excellent. Anthony, shall we leave now?” 

Anthony mustered a nod. He was going to go to Alva’s house, a thought that both excited and terrified him. He hadn’t been in the company of available men in ages, he wondered if he remembered how to act. Who was he kidding, he was thinking too far. Alva couldn’t possibly be interested in him. 

“You live here?” asked Anthony in awe as Alva escorted him into his lavish home. 

“Surprised?”

“Impressed.”

He whistled admiringly at the polished floors and ornate staircase. 

“I know it seems a bit gaudy,” admitted Alva, gesturing to the motley curtains and accents.

“My godmother had quite the unique taste in interior design, and I never bothered to redecorate,” he chuckled. 

Anthony smiled politely.

“Come, my quarters are this way," said Alva. 

Alva stopped in front of a magnificently decorated door. He held his hand on the handle, and glanced at Anthony. 

“And now, my dear, you get to see my greatest vice,” he whispered conspiratorially, and swung the door open. 

Behind the door was a his closet, which more of a decent sized room, with elegant suits and capes hanging on the walls. There were all kinds of styles and colours, and Anthony could see that they were unique pieces tailored specifically for Alva. He couldn't help but stare. 

Alva hadn’t always been as wealthy as he was now, and a part of him wanted to make up for the privileges he didn’t have in his childhood. He was a generous man, but like every human, he had the pleasures he wanted to indulge in, and he had the means for it. Of the pleasures he allowed himself, clothing was one of them. He put a lot of care in his appearance.

“It’s my guilt, I know,” Alva sighed as he gazed at his collection. 

“You’ve worn all of these?” asked Anthony. 

“At least once. They’re splendid for balls and charity functions, when I have to look my best,” Alva replied. 

“Alva, I can’t possibly wear one of these. These...probably cost more than my life,” Anthony told him. 

“Well, you wouldn’t wear one of the really expensive ones, but a suit like the one I’m wearing now,” he explained. 

He rummaged through some outfits, and pulled out a deep green suit with a faint floral pattern. Alva held up the jacket to Anthony’s chest and smiled. 

“I think this one will do, Anthony, what do you think?”

Anthony swallowed. 

“Yeah,” he managed as Alva’s manicured fingers brushed against his shirt. 

"You'll look fantabulosa, my dear, I assure you," Alva promised. 

“You can put it on, and then I’ll call for my butler to take your measurements for tailoring.”

Anthony touched the suit, and looked up at Alva. There was an awkward silence as their eyes met. 

“That is, if you’re comfortable,” Alva added quickly, breaking the tension. 

“Yeah…’s alright,” Anthony mumbled, taking the suit from his hands. 

Alva watched awkwardly as Anthony was being measured by the butler. He felt terribly intrusive, like he was peeping at him without his knowledge. He stared at the floor, studying the lines of the hardwood. Strange, he never noticed that the wood had a reddish hue to it. 

“If it’s alright, Anthony, I’ll be leaving for a bit to get some refreshments,” he finally said.

He turned on his heels and hurried out of the room. It could never work out between him and Anthony, not with the obvious divides in place. If he told Anthony how he felt, the man would be scandalized, or insulted, even. He didn’t want Anthony to think he wanted to take advantage of him, or thought he was just looking for a fling and someone to spoil. It was hopeless.


	4. Chapter 4

Usually, Anthony liked the silence. He liked the early mornings when the city wasn’t yet awake, when he could hear just the stirrings of the early birds in their nests. It was peaceful, and he felt for those brief moments that nothing else mattered in the world except for the sounds of his slow breaths and heartbeat.   
But the silence that permeated the Youngs’ sitting room was an entirely different silence. Arthur Young, Sarah’s father, was studying Anthony’s every expression. He didn’t look upset, but he didn’t look happy, either. The tea spread that Diedre Young, his wife, had prepared, lay untouched on the table between them. It was the opposite of a peaceful silence. Diedre looked uneasily at her husband, and then at Anthony, and then at Sarah. 

“The clotted cream is quite good, Arthur,” she said diplomatically.  
“I know you like it.”

Arthur’s mustache twitched as he looked at the table.

“Do you like clotted cream, Mr. Crowley?” Sarah asked. 

“I do, yes,” replied Anthony politely. 

“Do try some,” she pleaded. 

Anthony looked at Sarah, and then picked up his spoon and took a small dollop of the cream. He put it in his mouth and swallowed, and gave Diedre a small smile. 

“It’s very good, Mrs. Young,” he said lightly. 

“Why, thank you,” Diedre blushed. 

“I hear you were born on a farm?” she began in an attempt at conversation. 

“I did,” Anthony answered. 

He looked at Sarah, who was wearing a neutral face. 

“You don’t look English,” observed Diedre, “do you have a bit of Italian in you?”

“Jewish,” Anthony said, and then immediately regretted it. 

“ _Jewish_!” exclaimed Arthur, slamming his hand on the table. 

“Of course. Of course! Why am I not surprised?” 

Sarah shifted in her seat and shot Anthony a look. 

“Are you going to expect my daughter to attend your synagogue now?” Arthur interrogated. 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not religious, and I certainly wouldn’t expect your daughter to do anything she was uncomfortable with,” Anthony said calmly.

“Where did you find him, Sarah? I’m sure you found him in one of your Socialist clubs, did you?” Arthur sneered. 

“Not enough that he’s a gardener,” he muttered. 

“A gardener?” Diedre asked with interest. 

“You must spend a lot of time outdoors. It’s good for health, you know. I’ve been trying to do more gardening, you know,” she said. 

“It is an enjoyable profession,” Anthony told her, hoping the conversation would continue to take a calmer tone. 

“I’ve been trying to set up a vegetable garden, but I fear I don’t have such a proficiency for such things,” Diedre admitted.

“Perhaps the soil?” suggested Anthony, “I know the smoke from the factories can affect it. Sometimes you have to treat it before starting.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Sarah spoke up. 

“Anthony could help you, mother, with your garden,” she said, and Diedre looked excited at the thought. 

Arthur, who had been stewing in his fury, spoke again. 

“If you’re so talented in agriculture, why did you leave your farm?” he asked condescendingly. 

Anthony stiffened. It was not a question he expected, and not a question he liked answering. 

“I was trampled by our horse, and as such didn’t prove much use for my family’s business. I was better off sending money home to them from London,” he replied reluctantly. 

“So you’re lame,” said Arthur bluntly. 

“And you expect to provide for my daughter.”

“I’m quite capable, sir. I’ve been the Devices’ gardener for almost ten years now,” Anthony told him, his voice rising slightly.

Under the table, he clenched his fists. He was suffering needlessly, that’s what was so frustrating. He didn’t love Sarah, he hardly knew her. He was only marrying her as a favour to his friend. 

“I don’t think we should be too quick to judge him for his flaws,” Diedre said quietly, patting her husband’s arm in an attempt to calm him. 

“He seems a hardworking young man, and Sarah is an intelligent woman. She must see value in him, or she wouldn’t have courted him.”

“I think she’s just trying to hurt us,” Arthur grumbled. 

“I think we should give him a chance,” Diedre said softly. 

Arthur stood up, and shook his finger at Anthony.

“I know your kind, Mr. Crowley,” he said menacingly. 

“You can marry my daughter, but soon enough she’ll come to her senses. One day she’ll learn.”

“Arthur..”

“I’m going for a smoke,” he muttered, and headed for the other room. 

Diedre looked at Anthony apologetically. 

“He’ll come around,” she told him hopefully. 

A few minutes later, a sloppily dressed boy walked into the room. 

“Adam!” Diedre scolded, “I thought I told you to stay upstairs.”

“‘M hungry,” the boy shrugged, and swiped a biscuit from the table. 

“Who’re you?” he asked Anthony through chews. 

“Are you gonna marry Sarah?” he continued before Anthony could answer. 

“I-”

“Adam!”

“I don’t need an older brother, you know,” Adam said with confidence. 

Sarah let out a small laugh. 

“Adam,” Diedre said firmly, “go back upstairs.”

“I’m not gonna wear a suit at the wedding,” Adam said as he walked out. 

Anthony had to suppress a giggle. 

“Terribly sorry,” said Diedre, “you know how boys are at this age.”

“Yes,” Anthony replied politely. 

He needed to get out of there. It was suffocating, not just from Arthur’s smoke wafting in from the other room. 

“Anthony! That’s my good liquor!” Anathema protested as Anthony pulled out a bottle from her cabinet. 

He hadn't stopped glaring at her since he let himself into her kitchen. He lived in her carriage house, and because they were such close friends, Anathema's house could almost be his, too. But now he was in no mood for a friendly chitchat. 

“ _You_ got me into this mess,” Anthony grumbled as he poured himself a glass.   
"I have every right to use _your_ liquor to get myself plastered. Maybe I'll even black out and forget everything that happened today."

“Was it that bad?”

“No, it was splendid. I was welcomed with open arms,” he said sarcastically. 

“Yeah, I forgot to tell you. Arthur is a bit of a character,” Anathema replied guiltily. 

“A _character_? More like a cod,” Anthony hissed.

He downed his glass, wincing at the sting. 

“Why do I feel like I got the short end of the stick?” he said ruefully.


	5. Chapter 5

The weddings were scheduled quickly. Anathema, being a lone heiress, didn’t have to contend with a judgmental family in order to marry Alva. Their wedding would be first, with Anthony and Sarah’s a month later. Arthur Young still despised Anthony, but Diedre doted on him. And Adam, despite insisting he didn’t want an older brother, would always run up to talk to Anthony whenever he was around. He even brought over his friends to meet him, under the guise that they were “investigating.”  
Anthony didn’t involve himself at all in the wedding plans. He thought weddings were too extravagant, and although the Youngs delegated for a modest chapel ceremony, he still felt it was too much of a fuss. Especially since it wasn’t a real marriage, not in his mind. 

“I don’t see why you two couldn’t just run off to France or something,” Anthony said as Anathema and Sarah were embroidering their wedding frocks. 

“You know you could announce your presence with more cheer, Tony,” Anathema replied sarcastically without looking up from her embroidery hoop. 

“I told you I don’t like that nickname,” Anthony muttered. 

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine.”

“I’m getting married, Anathema,” Anthony said gloomily, “never thought I’d marry a woman, but here we are.”

“Look on the bright side,” Sarah told him, “at least you met Alva.”

Anthony blushed. 

“How- how is that a bright side?” he shot back.

Anathema grinned, seeing right through him.

“Oh, don’t play coy with me, Anthony boy. I saw you checking out his basket the other day,” she teased. 

“I- how- you’re despicable, Anathema,” Anthony sputtered, his cheeks a deep red.

“Please, it only makes sense that you two should engage in a similar arrangement to ours,” Anathema replied. 

Sarah laughed and swatted her playfully. 

“I’m going to take a nap. It’s too bloody cold to do anything anyway,” Anthony sighed, and left the room. 

Anathema and Sarah looked at each other knowingly.

“He’s a strange one,” Sarah quipped.  
“Are you sure you’re not related?”

“ _Dear Alva_ ," Anthony mumbled, then shook his head. 

"No, too simple," he decided.

" _My dearest Master Rolf…_ ”

“Oh no. Not that. Makes me sound like a Dilly.”

“ _To the most wonderful man in London-_ ”

Anthony stopped himself, then frowned. 

“What are you even thinking?!” he said to himself.

He paced around his room, trying to think. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t even write properly, and now he was thinking of telling Alva, a man much above his station, that he fancied him. Alva would think he was mad, and he’d have to face seeing him for the rest of his life afterwards. 

It was too complicated. First he’d have to think of what to write, then he’d have to find someone to write it, because he couldn’t write it himself, then he’d have to somehow find the courage to give it to Alva. Everything was always so complicated. 

Anthony wouldn’t consider himself illiterate. His parents had tried to teach him to read and write, but he could never quite grasp it. He knew his alphabet, he could recognize words if he saw them, but every time he tried to read, the words just swam on the page and he was overcome with dizziness.  
On the farm, he hadn’t really needed to be literate. All he needed to know was how to operate a plow, identify rot, and keep away rabbits and mice. For years it was just a mindless routine, and although he didn’t find much meaning in his work, he was content. Then, his father bought a new Sheffield to replace their old one who had to be retired. Anthony tried taming the horse at first, but during one of their sessions, the horse got spooked by a rabbit that had wandered into the pen, and threw Anthony off of his back. The horse, still in a rage, then trampled Anthony before charging through the pen and running off.  
Anthony’s father had been more upset about having to retrieve the horse than the fact that his son had almost been killed.  
In London, it was a bit more difficult to be a grown man and not know how to read or write. After some time, Anthony devised a system. Most barmen knew how to write, and while they were a bit confused when the young man asked them if he could dictate a letter to them in exchange for payment, they were happy to be paid for what they considered an easy task. 

“Flowery words, kid,” the old barman chuckled as he finished writing Crowley’s letter. 

“This Alva must be quite a catch.”

Anthony decided to go to a bar he knew was, well, _underground_ , especially since he knew the contents of his letter would only be accepted by a certain group of people. The barman had been happy to help him, especially since he was being paid. 

“He is,” gushed Anthony. 

He walked out of the bar, relieved that the letter was written, but now terrified that he would have to actually give it to Alva. He paid for it, he couldn't waste it now. It was dark, but Anthony wasn’t too nervous. Those unfamiliar with the neighbourhood might be uneasy, but Anthony knew he wasn’t in any real danger unless the police happened to be on patrol. 

“Anthony?” said a familiar voice from behind him, and Anthony jumped. 

“Alva?” he asked, turning around. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Alva smiled. 

Anthony could feel the letter in his coat, pressing against his chest, and now…Alva was standing right in front of him. 

“Yeah, um, hi,” Anthony stammered. 

“I was just...going out for a drink,” he explained. 

“Me too. Couldn’t sleep,” Alva replied. 

“Mhmhm”

“Are you going home?” he asked politely. 

“Er, I am now.”

“Splendid! We can walk together.”

Anthony nodded awkwardly. 

“Yeah.”

They walked further, and then stopped. In the light of the streetlamp, they could see a uniformed man approach them. 

“Fuck, a sharpy,” Anthony muttered. 

He and Alva instinctively began to walk slightly further apart from each other. 

“Bit late to be out and about, boys,” the officer said as he stood in front of them, blocking their way. 

His nightstick gleamed in the lamp light. 

“The only people up these hours are deviants-”

He looked at Alva. 

“And criminals,” he said, looking at Anthony. 

Alva looked anxious, his hands twisting behind his back. Anthony thought quickly. 

“I’ll let you in on a secret, constable,” he said in a hushed voice. 

The officer raised an eyebrow.

“My friend and I are both engaged, and we thought we’d have one last round with the birds, you see,” Anthony whispered, smiling as if he was sharing a story with friends. 

Now the officer chuckled. 

“Misery loves company, eh?” he smirked. 

“Wives are like hawks, I warn you,” he added with a wink. 

He clapped Anthony on the back, a little too hard. 

“You chaps enjoy your freedom while it lasts,” he told them and walked off. 

Anthony and Alva didn’t talk until they reached Anathema’s home. They walked quickly, shaken, and didn’t even dare look at each other. A few metres from the house, they both exhaled, allowing themselves to breathe easily. 

“That was quick thinking,” Alva finally said.

“Damn coppers,” Anthony grumbled, looking away. 

“Thank you,” Alva said earnestly. 

“S’nothing.”

Anthony looked down at the ground. 

“I’d better get home,” he said quickly, and walked unsteadily up the driveway.

A piece of paper fell out of his coat as he limped, and fluttered to the ground like an injured bird. 

“Anthony, wait!” called Alva, but Anthony was already inside. 

Alva picked up the paper, and, against his conscience, read it.


	6. Chapter 6

Anthony shut the door to his flat, his heart still beating quickly from his and Alva’s encounter with the police officer. Relief and adrenaline still hadn't worn off. There was a reason he didn’t like to go out at night. He was terrified of being arrested, and he knew he wouldn’t last long in prison.   
He ran his hands through his dark hair and took a deep breath. It was pure luck that he thought of a quick excuse for the officer- he had no doubt that any other time he would have frozen up and immediately implicate himself. Maybe it was Alva’s presence that gave him that tiny confidence boost that he needed.   
Speaking of Alva…

He pat his coat, feeling for the letter, and felt nothing. Panic began to set in, and he tore off his coat to see if perhaps it was in a different pocket. Then he checked to see if it had fallen into his trousers. He turned around, thinking it might have fallen when he closed the door, but the floor was just as clear as it was when he left it. Anthony liked to keep his flat meticulously tidy.   
His heart sank, and he left his flat as quickly as he could. 

He stood outside the huge house, looking around desperately. The letter was nowhere in sight. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, and stamped his foot on the floor. 

Pain jolted up his leg and to his spine when his foot made contact with the frozen ground. 

“You stupid…” he muttered to himself. 

The front door opened, and Anathema walked outside. 

“Anthony, what are you doing?” she scolded.  
“I heard you shouting, what will the neighbours think?”

“I lost something,” Anthony replied breathlessly. 

“What, your mind?”

Anthony shot her a look as cold as the air around them. 

“I had a letter written,” he mumbled distractedly.   
“Must have blown away…”

Anathema sighed, and crossed her arms. 

“Well, standing out in the cold won’t bring it back, Anthony,” she said.   
“Let’s go inside.”

Anthony slumped, and relented, and followed her inside. 

“The last time you had a letter written was to your family,” Anathema remarked as they sat in front of the fire. 

She had poured Anthony a cup of tea, which he moodily ruminated over, not looking up at her. 

“Who were you writing to?” she asked. 

“None of your business,” Anthony replied bitterly. 

“The subject of the letter doesn’t happen to be a broad, handsome man with a bright smile and soft curls, does it?” Anathema asked with feigned innocence. 

“Oh, don’t you think you’re smart?” Anthony said sardonically. 

He stood up, and placed his empty cup on the table. 

“I’m going to sleep,” he announced. 

“Well, we’re going to Alva’s house tomorrow, so be ready,” Anathema replied nonchalantly. 

Anthony’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Tomorrow?” he croaked. 

“Yes, Anthony, we discussed this before.”

“Ngk.”

The next day was.... awkward to say the least. Anathema and Sarah were the only ones who were really talking, while Alva and Anthony sat in silence, as furthest away from each other as possible. Anthony didn’t know why Alva was avoiding him, but as soon as he noticed his demeanor, he reciprocated the coldness.   
He stole glances at Alva, who seemed uncomfortable to be in the room, even though it was his own house. Perhaps he was still shaken from the night before, and was scandalized at Anthony’s behaviour. A part of Anthony was relieved he lost the letter- he couldn’t possibly give it to Alva now. He probably despised him.

After a long while, Alva rose from his seat, and walked in Anthony’s direction. Anthony looked down, refusing to look up at him. Alva reached him, and stood right in front of him. He looked down at Alva’s ornate shoes. 

“Anthony,” Alva said in a low voice.   
“Might I have a word with you?”

Anthony swallowed. 

“Uh, of course,” he managed to say. 

“Is everything alright?” asked Anathema. 

“Everything is alright, don’t worry,” Alva assured her. 

Anthony stood up on shaky legs. 

“What is it?” he asked nervously. 

“Come, I want to talk to you in private,” Alva replied. 

He looked as uneasy as Anthony was. 

Anthony followed Alva into another room, trying to guess what he wanted to tell him. Maybe he wanted to tell him to stay away. That seemed the most logical conclusion.   
They stood in silence for a moment, their breaths the only sound to be heard. 

“I’m not angry with you, Anthony,” Alva began.

He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a piece of paper. Gently, he handed it to Anthony, who took it with trembling hands. One look, and he recognized what the paper was. His stomach churned. 

“Did you write this?” Alva asked slowly. 

“Dictated,” Anthony forced himself to say. 

Alva took a slow, deep breath. 

“Do you mean it?” he asked. 

“Every word,” Anthony replied softly.

Alva pursed his lips, and nodded tensely.

“I understand if you don’t want to see me again,” Anthony said shamefully. 

“Anthony,”

Alva walked closer to him, and took the letter from his hands. He placed the letter on a nearby table, and returned to take Anthony’s hands in his. Soft, manicured hands grasped Anthony’s rough, calloused hands. 

“Anthony,” Alva repeated with a wavering voice. 

“I want you to know that the feeling is mutual,” he finally said.

Anthony looked up unbelievingly, and Alva touched his cheek. His hand was warm and gentle. 

“You’re so eloquent,” Alva murmured. 

“I didn’t actually write the words,”

“You thought of them.”

“Anthony,” Alva whispered, and Anthony met his gaze. 

“May I kiss you?” he asked. 

“Please,” Anthony breathed. 

Alva leaned in, and Anthony could smell his delicate perfume. Their lips met, and Anthony reciprocated Alva’s passion, standing on his toes to deepen the kiss. Alva’s lips were soft, likely from having access to the best ointments and balms. Anthony craved the sensation. They stood for minutes, entwined, their arms having found their way around each other. 

“Goodness,” Alva chuckled softly when they finally parted. 

“You’re a good, erm, kisser,” Anthony said shakily. 

“I look forward to doing it again,” Alva replied with a wink. 

“Mmm, that would be nice,” Anthony sighed. 

“But for now, I think we should return to the parlour before our friends think I’ve killed you or something,” Alva suggested with a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Anthony was in the Youngs’ small garden, showing Diedre how to make a compost pile. 

“Basically, you just put in all the scraps from cooking, like vegetable peels, eggshells, chicken skin….” Anthony explained.

A bit of dirt fell on his shoes, and he knelt down to shake it off. 

“Won’t it smell?” Diedre wondered.

Anthony shrugged.

“A bit, but it’s that nice smell, like fresh dirt,” he replied. 

“I suppose,” Diedre said politely. 

She couldn’t understand why anyone would like the smell of dirt, and she wondered what the neighbours would think. But she trusted Anthony's expertise, and so quelled those worries. 

“Well, you seem like you have it all under control. I’ll be in the kitchen. Are you interested in some pie?”

“Pie would be lovely, Mrs. Young,” Anthony told her, and then resumed working on the wooden frame. 

After a few minutes of silence, Anthony could hear the sound of small children coming closer. It must be Adam and his friends, he thought. Adam was always running off doing mischief of some sort. 

“Hullo, Mr. Crowley!” Adam said loudly as he entered the garden. 

Three other children his age trailed behind him, along with a mangy looking dog. 

“Hello, Adam,” said Anthony. 

“Mr. Crowley is gonna marry my sister,” Adam explained to his friends, who looked at him curiously. 

“Who is this?” Crowley asked as he inspected the dog. 

The dog was covered in dirt, and smelled like he’d been living in the streets. Adam looked a bit embarrassed when Anthony asked. 

“Erm, that’s Dog. We found him today,” he finally answered. 

“Found him?”

“We didn’t steal him, Mr. Crowley!” one of the children, a bespectacled boy, insisted. 

“Mhm,” said Anthony doubtfully. 

“Your mother is not going to be pleased, Adam. You can’t bring a stray home, you know. They can bite you,” he told Adam seriously. 

“Dog doesn’t bite. He’s the sweetest thing, promise,” Adam said, petting the dog as if to demonstrate how docile he was. 

“Well, that’s for you and your mother to work out,” Anthony sighed, and tried to go back to his work. 

“Well, um, you see, mother will never let in the house if she sees how dirty he is,” said Adam.   
“I was hoping you could help us give him a bath.”

Anthony turned around, and tried to put on his most convincing ‘grown-up’ expression. 

“Absolutely not, Adam. Who knows what sort of diseases this animal is carrying,” he replied sternly, putting his hands on his hips.

“Please?” begged Adam, and his three friends joined in. 

“Oh, please, Mr. Crowley,” they chorused. 

Anthony shut his eyes and grimaced. Children scared him with how persuasive they could be. The moment a child turned on those pleading eyes, he couldn’t refuse.

“Oh, alright,” he said, “I’ll help you.”

Anthony tiptoed through the Youngs’ house. He could hear Diedre humming in the kitchen, and he knew he would have to pass her to get to the water pump. He shoved the sliver of soap he managed to nip from the lavatory in his pocket, and walked into the kitchen. 

“Oh, hello Anthony,” Diedre smiled, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Just getting some water for the compost,” Anthony said nonchalantly, holding up a tin bucket. 

“Well, you carry on, then,” Diedre replied, and Anthony filled the bucket with water, and carried it out. 

“I don’t know how you manage all that heavy lifting with those legs of yours,” Diedre remarked as Anthony was about to leave the kitchen. 

“Ah, well, they’re not that bad most days. I have my cane mainly for walking, eases the strain on my knees,” he explained. 

Back outside, Adam and his friends were getting the dog ready for his bath. The dog seemed much more interested in Diedre’s flower bed. Anthony set the bucket on the tile, and called for the children. 

“Bring that dog here,” he instructed, rolling up his sleeves. 

Adam brought Dog, who was looking even dirtier than before. Anthony sighed- he was going to be a piece of work. 

“You never introduced me to your friends, Adam,” said Anthony as he held Dog with one hand and scrubbed his back with another. 

Anthony was doing most of the work, while the children sat cross legged watching him with interest. Occasionally Anthony would fling water at them. Mostly they were enjoying the show of Dog trying to wriggle out of Anthony's grasp, getting mud all over him in the process. 

“Oh, well, this is Jeremy Wensleydale,” Adam replied, pointing to the boy next to him, the one with the glasses.   
“But we just call him Wensleydale.”

“I’m Brian,” said the other boy as he rubbed his nose. 

“Just Brian?” Anthony asked. 

“Brian Kane, technically,” Wensleydale responded. 

“My given name is Priscilla Munchin,” the girl said, “but I hate it, and want everyone to call me Pepper.”

“Pepper it is, then,” Anthony chuckled. 

He gave Dog one final scrub, then wiped his hands on his trousers. 

“All clean, Adam,” he said. 

“And if you get in trouble with mum and dad,” he added in a low voice, “remember, I wasn’t involved.”

Adam nodded conspiratorially. 

In the corner, Wensleydale fiddled with his pocket watch, and Anthony’s eyes widened. In the excitement, he had forgotten the time passing. 

“Could you, ah, tell me the time?” he asked. 

“It’s almost two,” Wensleydale replied, secretly proud that he finally had use for the watch he had received as a birthday gift. 

Anthony was about to curse, and then remembered there were children around. He was late, almost two hours late, for his lunch with Alva, Anathema, and Sarah. He stood up quickly. 

“It was great meeting you,” he told the children, “but I have to go. I’m late enough as it is.”

He hurried out of the garden and down the road. 

When Alva’s butler opened the door, he looked disgusted to see Anthony standing there. 

“You must have the wrong house, boy, we’re not a charity,” he sniffed as he took in Anthony’s muddy clothes. 

Anthony looked down. He hadn’t had time to change, but he didn’t want to be any later than he already was. 

“I’m sorry, Alva is expecting me,” Anthony replied desperately. 

He began to doubt himself, thinking that maybe it would have been best if he hadn’t come. 

“Ridiculous,” the butler scoffed. 

“James?” Anthony heard Alva call from another room.   
“What’s going on?”

“There’s an urchin demanding to see you,” the butler called back.

“What urchin?” asked Alva, coming into view. 

Upon seeing Anthony, he softened, and turned to the butler. 

“Don’t you remember Anthony?” he asked. 

“I’m afraid I don’t,” the butler coughed uncomfortably. 

Alva ushered Anthony inside. 

“Anthony is welcome here anytime,” Alva told the butler.

“And I expect him to be treated with dignity.”

“I’m sorry about him,” Alva apologized as he took Anthony upstairs. 

“James is still a bit sour that he has to take orders from a black man.”

“Rude,” muttered Anthony.  
“Why does he still work for you, then?”

“Because I pay well and don’t work him half to death like other people,” Alva replied. 

“And he doesn’t talk of his prejudices towards me openly, of course, but I know his resentment.”

He turned to Anthony. 

“Anyway, what happened to you?” he asked with concern.

Anthony reddened. 

“I was at the Youngs helping with the garden, and then helped Adam wash his dog.”

“Adam doesn’t have a dog,” Alva said, confused.

“He does now. Took in a stray and begged me to help him,” Anthony explained. 

Alva’s face crinkled into a soft smile. 

“You’re a darling,” he told Anthony, who only blushed more. 

He took Anthony’s hand. 

“Anathema and Sarah already left, so we have the house to ourselves,” he continued. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can relax.”

Anthony leaned back in Alva’s expansive tub and breathed deeply. Alva was combing through his hair, gently picking out pieces of dirt and knots. Inside the tub, Anthony was enjoying the warm water and sweet smelling soap. He allowed himself to relax, and he felt like all the tension in his body was slowly dissipating. He could stay there forever. 

“Have you never had a bath like this?” asked Alva as he massaged Anthony's scalp. 

“Mm, never like this. It’s lovely,” Anthony murmured.

“Well, you can have many more like this one,” Alva promised, and laid a kiss on his forehead. 

Anthony sighed, and closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

Anthony fidgeted in his seat at the bar, watching the door for Alva’s familiar face. Alva had said he wanted to talk to him, and Anthony wondered what was so important that they couldn’t just go somewhere else. Anthony wasn’t very good with people his age. Children made him laugh, and the elderly warmed his heart, but people his age expected small talk, conversations, socialization….

“Well aren’t you a beauty,” murmured a man’s voice, and Anthony’s felt a shiver run up his spine.

“Excuse me?” Anthony coughed as a slick looking, blonde man sat in the seat beside him. 

The man was tall, lean, and clean shaven, and carried an air of confidence that smelled more like smugness. 

“What’s a little chicken like you doing all alone? Looking for a man to trade with?” the man asked lowly. 

Something felt wrong. Anthony had been propositioned before, but this was different. The man was strange, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He began to sweat, praying for Alva to show up already. 

“I’m just here for a drink,” he said quietly, hoping the man would leave him alone.

Instead, the man put a hand on his thigh, and Anthony flinched. 

“Why don’t I buy you one, then?” the man suggested. 

Anthony swallowed. No one seemed to notice, and if they did, they weren’t helping. 

“Anthony, there you are!” boomed Alva’s voice, and Anthony felt awash with relief. 

“Your wife’s been looking for you, old boy,” Alva chuckled, and clapped Anthony on the back. 

Anthony immediately stood up, and continued the act. 

“Aw, don’t chew me out, I’m already getting enough from her,” he grumbled, catching on quickly. 

The other man was frowning and gripped his glass. 

“Come on, let’s go home before she’s too upset,” Alva said loudly, pulling Anthony towards the door. 

“What did he say to you?” Alva asked once they were a long distance from the bar. 

“He propositioned me,” Anthony said with a twinge of embarrassment.

“Of course he did,” Alva muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony said quietly, his eyes downcast. 

“Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong,” Alva said firmly. 

“Do you know that man?”

Alva nodded somberly. 

“That was Lucius Abaddon. He’s known to be a lilly, secret police, you know,” he replied. 

“I thought that bar was safe, but I guess it’s been infiltrated.” 

He turned to Anthony. 

“I’m the one who should be sorry. Nearly got you arrested,” he said sadly. 

Anthony cocked his head, and gave Alva a small smile. 

“‘S alright. Got out, didn’t I?” he said uneasily. 

“Anyway. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Come, let’s sit,” Alva suggested. 

They had reached a bench, and found they had walked to a park.   
Anthony sat down, and glanced worriedly at Alva. 

“Everything alright?” he asked. 

“Everything’s alright, Anthony,” Alva assured him. 

“I just wanted to ask you a question.”

Anthony looked at him expectantly, and Alva fiddled a bit with his hands before speaking. 

“I, erm, have a cottage in the countryside, South Downs. I don’t use it that often, mostly if I want a break from the city, and I….” 

He paused, finding the question hard to ask. 

“I was wondering if you would like to...spend some time with me. There. In the cottage. For a week or so?” 

He looked at Anthony, who was speechless. 

“I know I’m moving too fast, just, err, pretend I didn’t say anything,” Alva added quickly, and looked away in shame. 

“No, no, you’re doing fine,” Anthony said softly, and pulled Alva to face him again. 

“I’m so very honoured you asked me,” he told him. 

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” asked Alva quietly.

“Of course, Alva, I’d love to,” Anthony replied. 

“If we weren’t in public, I’d kiss you,” he chuckled. 

Alva’s cottage was modest but charming. It had a magnificent view overlooking the rolling hills and forests of Devil’s Dyke. The cottage itself had a thatched roof, and ivy had blanketed itself all over the stone walls. There were old lace curtains on the windows, and a slate path to the door.   
Anthony stood at the doorway, taking everything in. It was a bit overwhelming being in the country again, and he had almost forgotten what clean air was like. 

“Are you alright?” Alva asked, seeing Anthony’s pensive expression. 

“Just thinking,” Anthony murmured. 

“We can go back if you’re uncomfortable,” Alva promised, and turned the keys over in his hands.

“I’m not uncomfortable, Alva….I’m just blown away by how beautiful everything is,” Anthony replied, caressing Alva’s cheek lovingly. 

“Beautiful?”

Anthony smiled. 

“Yes. The landscape...the cottage... _you_ ,” he said, and nuzzled his nose against Alva’s. 

“I feel like I don’t deserve you.”

“ _I_ don’t deserve you,” Alva echoed as he and Anthony drifted onto the couch. 

Anthony sighed, and laid against Alva, who had begun to comb his fingers through his hair. 

“I wish we didn’t have to get married,” he said.

“I wish we didn’t have to hide.”

“We won’t have to hide forever,” Alva replied.

“Yes we will,” Anthony insisted sadly.

“We ourselves might, but one day,” Alva said with hopeful certainty, “a couple like us, will be able to walk down the street holding hands without fear.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“We’ve survived long enough in history,” Alva told Anthony wistfully. 

Alva watched as Anthony slept peacefully on his lap. He was always envious of him, how he could, despite everything, manage to silence his thoughts for long enough to fall asleep. Usually Alva couldn’t get a good few hours in unless he took a shot of laudanum or brandy beforehand. And even then, he slept fretfully.   
He didn’t use laudanum anymore, Anthony had insisted on him quitting, and if he was being honest it was getting a bit easier to sleep if Anthony was by his side. Alva hadn’t thought of it before, but he had been terribly lonely before he met Anthony.

His parents had died from cholera when he was just a baby, and he drifted from orphanages to boarding houses until he was finally offered an apprenticeship with the old Mr. Potts. The Madame had doted on him, and even went as far as adopting him, but she had never felt like a mother to Alva. Not really. Of course he cared about her, after all, he owed her almost everything, but she wasn’t family. Even Anathema and Sarah, his closest friends, didn’t feel familial. 

Anthony, however, was different. He felt a kinship to him, but a connection different from brotherhood. He wasn’t just a friend, and he certainly wasn’t just a sexual partner. Anthony was his family. 

He gently pick up Anthony from his lap and carried him into the bedroom, where he laid him on the large bed. Anthony stirred, but didn’t wake, and Alva felt his heart grow warm with fondness. He changed into his pyjamas, and crawled into the bed next to him. In his sleep, Anthony rolled over, as if subconsciously moving closer to Alva. 

“Sweet dreams, my husband,” Alva whispered.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief mention of injury and violence.

Not long after their return to London from the South Downs, Anthony noticed a change in Alva. He wasn’t sure if it was a direct effect of their holiday, but Alva seemed quieter, and more reserved. They were still close as ever, and Anthony spent more and more time in Alva’s home, but Alva seemed like he was keeping something from him. Alva was planning something, Anthony knew, but he didn’t know what it was.   
He had tried talking to him about it once, late at night while they were laying in Alva’s large bed. 

“Oh, just business affairs,” Alva had said, brushing him off. 

Anthony wondered what was so sensitive that he couldn’t tell him. 

One morning, at dawn, Anthony set out towards Alva’s house. 

“Extra extra! Workers’ strike at Hellion Mills!” shouted a newsboy as he passed him. 

“I used to work there!” Anthony gasped. 

He turned on his heels, and started walking towards Hellion Mills. If there was a strike, he was going to join in. He wasn’t a factory worker, not anymore, but he felt a solidarity towards his fellow labourers. When he first moved to London, he had taken a job at Hellion Mills. The sweatshop was a horrible environment to work in, and he was always having trouble breathing. When he was offered a job as a gardener, he jumped at the opportunity. Some days were excruciatingly painful, even years later, given his injured legs, but he knew it was better than working in a cramped, disease-ridden factory.   
He finally arrived at the factory, and to his surprise he saw a familiar figure walking towards the picket line. Alva was the last person he expected to see there. 

“What are you doing?” Anthony asked loudly, but Alva didn’t reply. 

Alva’s face was etched with determination, and he looked horrified at seeing Anthony standing before him.

“Go home, Anthony, it’s too dangerous,” Alva told him.

“What?!” Anthony exclaimed, completely misunderstanding Alva’s intentions. 

He had thought, as he came to know and trust Alva, that he wasn’t like the other wealthy men he knew. But as Alva strode closer to the picket line, closer to the factory door, doubt began to plague Anthony’s mind. He grabbed Alva’s arm, both out of fear and anger. 

“Let go of me!” Alva yelled as Anthony tried to pull him away. 

“It’s not what you think.”

“Damn right, I thought you were different,” Anthony hissed.

“What’re you- Anthony, trust me,” Alva pleaded. 

They were causing a scene, and an officer began to approach them. Anthony turned his head, momentarily distracted, and Alva tore away from his grasp. He disappeared into the crowd. 

“Alva, get back here!” Anthony cried. 

A policeman grabbed Anthony from behind as he stood in shock and confusion. 

“On your knees,” the officer ordered, and pushed Anthony to the ground. 

His knees hit the pavement with a resounding crack, and he knew he had broken bone. All around him, he could see workers, mostly women, being arrested and shoved into police carts.

“I’m not...this is all wrong,” Anthony tried protesting, tried explaining that he didn’t even work at Hellion Mills. 

He wouldn’t even have been in the area if it weren’t for-  
And then he realized with heartbreaking clarity... _Alva had abandoned him_. 

“Look out!” someone shouted. 

There was the sound of an explosion, and then a searing shockwave knocked Anthony off balance. His face hit the cobblestone, and the sounds and smells began to swarm around him, until he couldn’t feel anything. 

Anthony woke up in a cell, to an older man washing his wounds with a cracked basin of water. 

“‘Bout time,” the man chuckled, “you got quite the knocking there.”

Then Anthony remembered the factory, the strike, the explosion and the fire. 

“He left me,” Anthony croaked. 

“Who? Friend of yours?” the man asked. 

“I don’t know anymore,” Anthony replied.

“Ah. A lover,” the man nodded solemnly. 

A jail guard walked in, and seemed reluctant to look at the two of them. 

“Get up,” the guard told them in a clipped tone.

“Me?”

“Both of ye. Some charitable society paid all of you tramps’ bails,” the guard replied. 

Alva dithered outside the jailhouse. It had taken hours for him and the rest of the union to sort out the documentation needed to free all the strikers who had been arrested. When the smoke had cleared from the explosion, Alva had returned to look for Anthony. He hadn’t had time to explain himself, but he knew he had to now. Anthony had looked so angry at him, and Alva knew he had to set things straight.   
But, to his dismay and terror, he had been informed that Anthony had been arrested along with the other strikers. 

Anthony finally stumbled out of the jailhouse, and Alva rushed forward. Anthony looked so weak, and teetered on his feet. Alva caught him just as he collapsed. 

“Thank God you’re alive,” Alva murmured in relief. 

Even in his state, Anthony looked at him coldly, and glared at him.

“Don’t talk to me,” Anthony muttered hoarsely. 

“Anthony-” Alva began, but couldn’t find the words. 

He simply gathered Anthony in his arms, and carried him into his coach. Anthony was too weak to protest as Alva took him home, and as Alva tended to his wounds. Alva knew Anthony might just walk out on him once he was healed, but he didn't care. At least he was alive.


	10. Chapter 10

“I know you want answers,” Alva said slowly as he set a tray of food by Anthony’s bed. 

Anthony’s leg was broken, and he had stayed bedridden for the past few days. Alva had tried for days to try and explain himself, but Anthony had refused to talk to him. Instead, he would just watch him as he opened the window in the mornings, closed it at night, and brought him food. It was like a phantom was haunting the room.

“I didn’t mean to leave you, Anthony. I was….”

He paused, and glanced at Anthony, was just looking at him with steely brown eyes.

“Perhaps it’s better if I just show you,” Alva muttered. 

“Show me what?” asked Anthony, finally speaking. 

“Are you able to get out of bed?” Alva asked. 

“Yeah,” Anthony nodded. 

“Can you…..come downstairs with me?” 

“How do I know I can trust you?”

Alva sighed. 

“I’ve been taking care of you for this long, isn’t that enough proof?” he snapped, then composed himself. 

He took a deep breath. 

“You can come downstairs if you want. I’m not forcing you,” he said.   
“I’ll help you get out of bed, but you don’t have to leave your room if you don’t want to.”

Anthony didn’t reply, but he didn’t object when Alva held out his hand for him to take it. After a long minute, he grabbed it, and with Alva’s help, climbed out of the bed. He took his crutches from Alva and stood up, still watching the other man with an uneasy, accusatory gaze.

“Right. I’ll leave you then,” Alva told him.   
“You’re welcome to come down when you’re ready.”

Alva left, and carefully shut the door behind himself, leaving Anthony alone.

Now alone, Anthony slowly made his way to the other side of the room. He was in one of Alva’s guest bedrooms, a simple but tastefully decorated room. There was a painting of a night sky over the moors, and the wallpaper was a pale lavender with a pattern of flower petals. Anthony wondered if Alva had the painting commissioned himself, or if it had already been there when Alva inherited the stately home. Then he chased the thought away, not wanting to think about the man he still cared about. There was also a small window with lace curtains in one corner, and Anthony looked out from it.   
As he looked out onto the street below, he could see people gathering and entering Alva’s house. Some arrived by carriage, but most had walked. Similarly, only a small minority were dressed in the typical clothes of a wealthy individual. Most of the people coming were dressed in neat, but clearly poorer attire. Anthony was now insatiably curious. He drew in the curtains, and began to get dressed. 

Alva stood outside his drawing room, pensively sipping his wine. People, about a few dozen of them, were inside, and at the moment he wasn’t needed in there. So he excused himself, and took a break. He never liked crowds, anyway.   
He was pacing by the stairs, not so much drinking the wine but studying it intensely, trying to focus his racing and overwhelmed mind on one thing. Then he heard the thumps of crutches on floor, and looked up to see Anthony slowly and haphazardly making his way down the staircase. 

“Let me help you!” he said quickly as he rushed up to him, but Anthony shooed him away. 

“I can do it myself,” he replied stiffly. 

Alva backed away, but didn’t leave him. Much to Anthony’s annoyance, he walked alongside him, matching his pace until they reached the end of the stairs. 

Anthony leaned against the wall to take a few heavy breaths. 

“Can I get you anything?” Alva asked. 

“No, I’m fine,” Anthony answered quickly, and hobbled towards the drawing room. 

“Gonna answer all my questions, yeah?” he muttered dryly as he opened the door. 

The people in the room all stopped talking when Anthony walked in. Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable as all those pairs of eyes fixed themselves on him. 

“Erm, this is Anthony Crowley,” Alva said as he stood behind Anthony, smiling awkwardly. 

“Yeah, I remember him from the police carriage,” said a woman. 

A few others nodded. Anthony himself recognized some of them from the strike, although most of that day had been a blur. He looked quizzically at Alva, who took Anthony aside, and began to speak to him in a low voice.

“Anthony, I..well, let me just put this out plainly. I’m a host and sponsor of a labour union, and this is one of the meetings. I figured I ought to tell you,” he finally explained, fiddling nervously with his coat. 

“I didn’t want to get you involved. That’s why I- ah, took you off on holiday while there were a few meetings in my home,” he said guiltily. 

Anthony frowned, but didn’t say anything. 

“The strike was, err, coordinated. Planned. I didn’t want you there because I didn’t want you to get hurt. And you were. And I’ll never forgive myself for that,” Alva continued, unable to look at Anthony out of shame. 

“Why?” Anthony finally asked, his voice cracking. 

“Why what?”

“Why couldn’t you tell me?” 

“I-”

“I used to work at Hellion Mills, you think I wouldn’t find your cause important?! You think I couldn’t have helped?!” Anthony shouted. 

Everyone was looking at them now. 

“Anthony-”

“Don’t ‘Anthony’ me, Alva,” Anthony said coldly. 

“Did you think I couldn’t be trusted? Or did you think I was too weak to handle my own?” he demanded. 

Now he was tearful, and with one hand he rubbed them away. He couldn’t cry, not now, not in front of Alva and everyone. 

“I’m going home,” he told Alva, and left the room.

“Anthony,” Alva pleaded as Alva walked towards the front door. 

“I don’t hate you, Alva,” Anthony sighed. 

“Just...I need to be alone. Please don’t come after me.”

Anthony opened the door and walked outside. Alva stood frozen, seemingly frozen to the floor, as Anthony walked further and further away from him. It wasn’t sudden, Anthony was a slow walker given his broken legs and crutches, and so Alva watched for many long minutes as Anthony left his property, and walked down the street, until he finally disappeared in the distance. 

“I’m sorry,” Alva whispered with a trembling voice.


	11. Chapter 11

“How is he doing?” Alva asked quietly when he, Anathema, and Sarah met for tea. 

“His leg is healing nicely,” Anathema said slowly.  
“He’s moved back to a cane from his crutches.”

Alva nodded, and closed his eyes in a mixture of relief and melancholy.

“Is he happy?” 

“He’s doing alright. He’s started gardening a bit again, although I made sure not to let him exert himself,” Anathema replied. 

“But is he happy?” Alva repeated.

“Alva. I can’t tell you how he feels, you can ask him if you want,” Anathema said seriously. 

“He doesn’t want to talk to me. He said so himself,” Alva said bitterly. 

“It’s been almost a month and a half,” Sarah sighed.  
“Even with past beaus, I’ve at least spoken to them at some point.”

“I hurt him,” Alva muttered. 

“He hurt _you_ !” Anathema insisted. 

“Look at yourself, Alva. You’re losing sleep, you’re lonely, you won’t go out with us as much anymore. He hurt you too.”

“Don’t villainize him,” Alva said under his breath. 

“I’m not villainizing him. He’s as much my friend as you are, I’m just stating the facts. Perhaps he didn’t mean to hurt you, but he did. Words can hurt, Alva,” Anathema replied gently.

“I still hurt him,” Alva muttered. 

“So you hurt each other. You had a fall-out. But you can’t go on like lovesick children refusing to even say one word to each other. The sooner you can talk it out, the sooner you both can move on.”

“I don’t think he wants to move on,” Sarah told her, and Alva’s reaction only confirmed it. 

He looked downcast, and fiddled with his teaspoon. 

The day of Alva and Anathema’s wedding arrived, and Anthony, being the closest Anathema had to a living relative, was set to give her away at the altar. In truth, he really didn’t want to have to do it, but Anathema was too important to him for him to refuse.  
Anathema, never one to conform to the latest fashion trends, opted to wear a deep purple gown instead of white. It was trimmed with embroidered violets, which only she, Sarah, Anthony, and Alva carried a meaning more than just looking pretty. 

“A bit too on the nose, no?” Alva had remarked once, but Anathema had laughed him off. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Anathema whispered as she hooked arms with Anthony, who waited for her at the church doors.

“Of course,” Anthony whispered back. 

Anthony kept his head down as they made their way down the aisle. He knew Alva was standing at the end of the aisle, and he couldn’t bear to look at him. 

“Smile, Anthony, you’re not at a funeral,” Anathema hissed as they neared the altar. 

Anthony let out a small smile, for her sake, but he stared ahead, focusing instead on the large crucifix on the wall instead of the man standing in front of him. But, he couldn’t help catching a glimpse of Alva.  
He looked beautiful standing there, and Anthony felt his eyes become misty. He hated himself for pushing him away, but he didn’t know how to amend his actions. He wanted to tell him that he was sorry, but he couldn’t find the right way to say it. In all the months of his isolation from him, he wanted to reach out to Alva, but every time he mustered up the courage to talk to him, he found a way to scare himself out of it. He knew he was a coward, but he didn't know where to find the strength to apologize and own up to his words. 

“You know, Anthony, I’d love it if you would attend the reception,” Anathema told Anthony as she prepared to go back downstairs after changing into her party dress.

“ _He_ wouldn’t. I can’t bear for him to see me,” Anthony replied, and looked away. 

“I’m sure he’s not as cross with you as you think he is,” Anathema tried to assure him.

“Empty words, An,” Anthony muttered. 

Anathema sighed and shook her head. 

“I’ll save you some pudding, then,” she said. 

“Enjoy the party, Anathema,” Anthony told her quietly. 

Alva hung back during the reception. The food and drinks were delicious, but everything tasted dry and bland to him. He hadn’t seen Anthony in months, and when he saw him in the church, leading Anathema to the altar, it took all his self control to not burst into tears. He should have been angry at him, and there was a time when he had been, but now all he could feel was an empty sadness.  
He kept looking up the stairs, hoping, or perhaps dreading, Anthony coming downstairs. If he did see Anthony again, would he know what to say? Would Anthony even want to hear him? He at least wanted to know if Anthony still cared about him, because Alva knew in his heart that he still cared about him. 

There was a sound of movement from the top of the stairs, and Alva looked up to see a flash of dark hair. 

“Anthony?” he breathed, but there was no response. 

He walked up the stairs, each step making his heart beat louder and faster. Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, and looked around. A reckless part of him wanted Anthony to be there, but if anyone had been there, the hall was now empty. 

There was a branch on the floor, which could have been mistaken for rubbish, except that Alva noticed it, and noticed that it looked out of place. While he knew Anathema was a bit eccentric, he also knew Anthony was immaculate, and as such kept Anathema's house as such. The branch was in fact a clipping of small yellow flowers, and upon inspection Alva realized it was a sprig of rue.  
**Rue**. _Repentance and sorrow._  
Alva gripped the flowers. Was he too hopeful that he was kidding himself?  
He knew Anthony was a gardener, and that he often dealt with plants and such. Was it just a coincidence that the plant representing regret had dropped off his clothes, where Alva would find it? 

“Are you there, Anthony?” Alva called out, but if Anthony was hiding somewhere, he didn’t make himself known.


	12. Chapter 12

Over the next few weeks, Alva kept finding stems and branches nearly every time he visited Anathema, far too many times for them to be mere coincidences. Although in the eyes of the law, he and Anathema were married, they still lived in their own homes, with the excuse of preserving the wealth. However, he still visited Anathema daily, both because she was her friend, and because they now had to keep the image of a happy couple. 

The night after their wedding, Anathema actually spent the night at Alva’s, for appearances’ sake. But when Alva escorted her home the next day, he found a sprig of wormwood by the door when he left. At first he thought Anathema had dropped it. After all, she liked to experiment with different occult rituals and potions, and so finding wormwood in her home shouldn’t be out of place. But when, two days later, he returned to find a marigold blossom in the same spot the wormwood had been, he knew it hadn’t just fallen there on accident. He also knew that in the language of flowers, wormwood represented absence, and marigold represented pain and grief. When a week later, he found a peony, Alva knew what he had to do. 

The next time he visited Anathema, he came prepared with a stem of foxglove. In the same spot as before, Alva found a purple hyacinth. When he picked it up, he replaced it with the foxglove, just before he left to go home.   
From that moment, Alva began a silent exchange with Anthony, or at least who he assumed was Anthony. He was fairly sure it was him, at this point.   
Willow (love forsaken) was exchanged for a branch of conifer (unchanging friendship).   
Red columbine (anxiety) was exchanged for sweet brier (a wound to heal).   
The night before Anthony’s wedding to Sarah, Alva found a sprig of false goat’s beard, _I’ll still be waiting._

Anthony had never really engaged in an official church function. His family was Jewish, and although they had never been religious, mostly because of being the only Jews for miles in the English countryside, they had also never observed any Christian practices outside of social obligations. The first time he had been in a church was after he was evicted from his first real home in London, if a tiny cramped tenement shared with four other men could be counted as a home. It had been wintertime, and Anthony had been freezing, so he took shelter in a church. He had slept there overnight, but by morning the deacon found him and threw him out, thinking he was a thief.   
The Youngs, however, were a traditional family, and although Sarah didn’t care either way, Arthur Young insisted on a church wedding. Anthony just had to shrug his shoulders and comply. It wasn’t as if he really cared about being married, anyway. He went through the rotes of the ceremony mechanically, really wanting to get it over with. He also knew Alva was sitting in the pews, and he didn’t know how he was going to cope.   
Anthony knew in his heart that it was Alva who was picking up his flowers. No one could be as astute to notice, and communicate, with his silent messages. He just hoped he would know what to do next, because he knew he couldn’t exchange plants forever. 

The Youngs hosted the reception, which was considerably more modest than that of Anathema and Alva’s. It was mostly attended by the greater Young family, but also Alva and Anathema, and a couple of other close friends. Despite Arthur’s protestations that it wasn’t traditional, Anthony had actually helped Diedre prepare some of the food for the reception. Arthur had just had to reluctantly accept Anthony into the family. 

Anthony enjoyed the food, and tried to engage in small chatter with Sarah’s various family members. Being the groom he couldn’t just escape to another room, or just eat the desserts. Sarah's extended family seemed very interested in his life story, and he was very interested in _not talking to them_.  
He was absorbed in trying to emit an aura of “please don’t talk to me” when he heard a tap of a knife against glass. He looked up to see Alva stand in front of his seat, and his heart could have jumped out of his chest. Alva cleared his throat, and began to speak. 

“I’d like to make a toast,” he said, “to the bride-”  
He looked right at Anthony- “and groom.”

Anthony’s cheeks flushed and felt very, very warm. 

“In this day of sacred rites and tradition, let us not forget the love.”

Sarah and Anathema exchanged a glance, and then looked at Anthony. 

“Love does not come easily, and it’s not something one finds and never has to work for again.”

Alva paused to take out his handkerchief, and wipe his eyes. 

“Love is like a flower,” he continued. 

“It’s beautiful and lovely and alive, but it has to be protected and cared for and cultivated. Anthony-”

Anthony blinked, and sat up straighter, his attention focused solely on the man speaking before him. 

“You are a gardener, and I know you know how to tend to a flower. When you find love, Anthony, I know you cultivate it. Cultivate your love, Anthony, because your efforts are not in vain.”

Alva bowed his head, and took a small sip of his wine. He sat down, and for a brief moment the room was silent, before the din began once more. Anthony was speechless, and when he saw leave abruptly, he knew he couldn’t just sit there. 

Sarah, who was sat next to him, squeezed his arm under the table. 

“Go after him,” she mouthed, and Anthony left his seat.


	13. Chapter 13

Anthony found Alva in the Youngs’ garden, which over the months had turned into a handsome vegetable patch. Alva was pacing, his face contorted in distress and anxiety. Anthony felt a dark cloud of guilt eat away inside himself as he approached him. 

In their months of silence, he had, through the pain, grown in his understanding of what Alva meant to him. He had thought that Alva would hate him, expected him to, and when Alva didn't so much as sneer at him, he had been confused. Anthony had been almost....angry at Alva for not lashing out at him, for not forcing him to stay, even. He thought Alva didn't care about him because he let him walk away.   
But when Alva let him walk away, he had been showing him the highest form of affection- respect and trust. Alva respected him, and Anthony didn't know how to react to being respected. He had been treated with dignity before, but treated as an equal? It was a phenomena he had never experienced before, and once he was exposed to the feeling, it was like a cold gale against his face. It hurt, but only because he was confused. 

Anthony walked up to Alva, and ever so tentatively touched his hand. 

“Alva,” he said softly, and Alva looked up.

His dark umber eyes were shining with unshed tears. 

“Anthony,” Alva replied slowly. 

Anthony twisted his fingers, trying to find the right words to say. 

“I know you’ll never truly forgive me,” he finally said, nearly choking on his words. 

“But I am sorry for my behaviour towards you. I’ve been so...cold towards you, Alva, torturing myself and hurting you. The truth is, I’ve been so, ever so lonely. You've been more than a friend to me, Alva, and more than a man I fancy. You....respect me, Alva. You don't see me as above or below yourself, you don't expect more or less from me. I've missed you so much."

Anthony coughed, and looked at him remorsefully.

"Will you-”

“Say it,” Alva murmured. 

“Will you let me come back to you?” Anthony asked. 

Alva held out his arms, an invitation. 

“That’s all I want,” he said quietly. 

Anthony stepped forward, and wrapped his arms around him. He buried his face in his chest, inhaling his scent, his perfume, feeling the fabric of his shirt rub on his cheek. Alva returned the embrace, and hugged him close. 

“I’ve been cruel,” Anthony mumbled when they pulled apart. 

“You’ve been foolish, Anthony, but so have I,” Alva replied gently.

“How can I ever atone?” asked Anthony. 

“Oh, my dear, my darling, you don’t have to,” Alva assured him, and took his hand. 

He clasped it to his chest, and then pressed it to his lips. 

“You’re trembling, Anthony,” he said. 

“So are you,” Anthony pointed out shakily. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” they said at once. 

They then both laughed lightly. 

“I wonder what your new in-laws must be thinking,” Alva teased. 

“That I’ve run off with a handsome man on my wedding day?”

“I wish,” Alva replied, a wave of melancholy passing his eyes. 

“Let’s do it, then,” Anthony said suddenly. 

“Your humour astounds me, dear boy,” Alva chuckled before he realized that Anthony was half serious. 

“We can run off to the countryside, Alva. Live on a farm, or something,” Anthony told him. 

“It would be the dream,” Alva sighed wistfully. 

“We could move to South America,” Alva added playfully. 

“Alas….life,” Anthony deflated. 

“Anthony,” said Alva. 

“I don’t need to live in paradise when I’m with you.”

“Ah, the groom returns!” Arthur exclaimed when Anthony and Alva entered the room. 

Arthur was past inebriated, and in far better spirits. Sarah just shrugged sheepishly at the couple. 

“Yes, how could I leave my beautiful wife?” Anthony chuckled. 

Adam had snuck into the room and was in the process of a dessert caper. He ran past Anthony and Alva, leaving a trail of crumbs and icing drops in his wake. 

“Shall we go home?” Anthony asked Sarah, who stood up immediately. 

“Of course, my husband,” she smirked. 

As they left the Young home, Sarah was on Anthony’s arm, and Anathema on Alva’s. However, by the time they arrived at Anathema’s home, Anthony was leaning on Alva, and Sarah and Anathema were walking hand in hand. 

“So...I take it you two are back together?” Anathema asked as she poured drinks for the four of them. 

“I don’t know, are we?” Alva asked jokingly. 

Alva was sitting on the coach, with Anthony sprawled across his lap. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Anthony murmured demurely. 

“We’re both married men, we couldn’t _possibly _be in any other relationship.”__

__“Indeed,” Alva nodded with a smile._ _

__“That would be immoral.”_ _

__“Scandalous,” Sarah added as Anathema sat next to her and kissed her cheek._ _

__“Dare I say….illegal,” Anathema cackled._ _

__

__

__Anthony yawned, and rose from his seat._ _

__“‘M exhausted. I think I’ll head to bed,” he announced._ _

__“Oh, you can’t sleep alone anymore, Anthony. You’re married now,” Anathema teased._ _

__“You’re right,” Anthony smiled._ _

__“Coming, Alva?”_ _


End file.
